


Delirious

by LapfulofMisha



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, implied minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapfulofMisha/pseuds/LapfulofMisha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek end up trapped in the woods . . . Derek gets hurt and becomes delirious, and says all kinds of things he wouldn't normally say . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delirious

Chapter 1

“You want me to do _what_??”

Stiles stands in front of his best friend, staring, mouth hanging open, because he cannot possibly be hearing what he thinks he’s hearing.  Either that or Scott has finally, totally, _irrevocably_ lost his mind.

“Come on!  It’s only for a few days.   Your dad’s leaving town for a week of tactical training tomorrow, right? He won’t even know you’re gone!” Scott is looking at him like he’s being unreasonable.

“He’ll know if I don’t come back!”

No, that’s not hysteria in his voice, because there is _no way_ he’s doing this, so there’s no reason to get upset. Right?

Scott gets up from the stairs he’s sitting on, and now they’re both standing in front of Scott’s house. Scott is giving Stiles that look, the one that says, I know you’re going to do what I need you to do because you always help me when I need you to, and Stiles _hates_ that look.

“Come on, this is important.  What if it was me laying there in Deaton’s office right now, writhing in pain, waiting to die?”

Stiles looks into Scott’s eyes and pretty much figures he’s doomed.  Logically, he knows it’s only a matter of time before Scott gets poisoned too.  After all, the guy’s been shot before, and their luck isn’t exactly great. Ever since the hunters figured out that dipping the tips of their arrows in that mysterious, liquid death substance they’d discovered would cause werewolves to die slowly and agonizingly over a period of several days, well, life has been even more frightening than usual.

Deaton called it a neurotoxin.

Stiles groans.  “Why does it have to be me? Why can’t Deaton go?”

“Because they watch him, you know that. They’d notice he was gone and suspect something.”

“Oh. And, of course, no one will notice that _I’m_ gone. Obviously.” His words drip with sarcasm, and Scott rolls his eyes.

“No one will _care_ ,” Scott tells him, and isn’t that good to know? “Look, your dad won’t be around, and if anyone else asks, we’ll cover for you.”

Enough of this pussyfooting around. Stiles decides it’s time to get to the heart of the matter, to the real reason he’s protesting his involvement in this little road trip.

“Why does _he_ have to go?”

“Because the herb grows on a plant that looks exactly like wild roses. You won’t be able to tell the difference, but werewolves can _smell_ the difference.”

“Can’t Deaton figure out something else besides that stupid herb to make an antidote with? How does he even know it will work? If it’s so rare it only grows three places in the world - ”

“Stiles!  Listen!  The herb grows wild in a forest in the northwest. Be glad it’s only twelve hours from here and not in another country! You need Derek to find the herb, and he needs you to harvest it, because it’s lethal to werewolves until it’s refined. There’s no one else who can go. If you don’t go, we have no cure, and eventually the hunters will exterminate us.  What part of this don’t you understand?”

Scott is getting a bit freaked out and Stiles . . .well, Stiles knows when he’s defeated.

“The only part I don’t understand is  . . . what the hell am I going to do in a car for twelve hours with Derek Hale?”

The truth is he feels a combination of curiosity, terror, and arousal at the idea, and he’s desperately trying to ignore that last part. It’s difficult to ignore, though, and yeah, he’s fantasized about the guy, but he also fantasizes about him being _nice_ while he’s doing the things he fantasizes about him doing _,_ and _that_ will never happen.

Scott tries to be sympathetic and fails miserably.  The advice he finally comes up with is, “Just – just try to ignore the guy.” 

“Ignore the guy.  Right.  Because he just kind of blends into the scenery. Because he _oozes_ companionable silence.  Because it’s not like I’d rather throw myself into a pile of hungry pissed off rattlesnakes with shards of glass for teeth and cyanide for venom then be alone with the guy for _two or three days_!”  Which wasn’t entirely true, but Scott _definitely_ didn’t need to know that.

Scott’s eyes grow wide and he looks like he’s about to say something, but he stops himself.

“Oh, god, he’s right behind me isn’t he?”

Stiles whips his head around and sure enough, there’s Sourwolf himself, leaning against his Camaro which has mysteriously appeared next to the curb,  and he looks even less pleased about the situation than Stiles.

“How’s Erica?” asks Scott, trying to diffuse the thick cloud of tension that suddenly fills the air.

“The treatment Deaton’s giving her is slowing the neurotoxin’s progression, but she’s in a lot of pain.  If we don’t get that herb soon . . .” He looks pointedly at Stiles, as if it’s somehow his personal fault that she’d gotten shot and poisoned.

Stiles feels a horrifying urge to comfort Derek.  He may be an aloof, bad-mannered, ill-tempered jerk, (who scares the crap out of Stiles, let’s not forget _that_ part) but Stiles knows he’s worried about Erica, about _everyone_ in his pack. He can’t fault the guy for being _antsy_.

“Look, my dad leaves for the airport at 5 a.m.  Once he’s gone, we can go.”  Oh god, did he just agree to _do_ this crazy shit?

Derek growls at him. “You better be awake and ready to leave, or so help me-”

“I plan to help you, and you need me, so threatening me is kind of pointless right now, don’t you think?”

He’s kind of getting used to the threats, but _seriously_? If he survives this, Scott is going to owe him BIG time.

Derek narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

“Look, I need to go home and get some stuff together.” He breaks eye contact with Derek, trying to ignore the fact that his tight t-shirt leaves nothing to the imagination when it comes to that muscular chest and SHIT this line of thought cannot continue.

“Scott,” he mumbles as he walks by, “I swear to god, you owe me Comic Con tickets for doing this shit.”

Scott smiles at him and wishes him good luck, then walks over to Derek to talk about pack stuff.

Chapter 2

It’s 5:15 a.m., and somewhere in the back of his mind, Stiles hears his dad frantically rummaging around in the kitchen. He hears him yell something about missing his damn plane because he can’t find his damn keys and then out the door he goes in a frantic whirlwind of cursing.  He and Stiles had their ‘stay the hell out of trouble while I’m gone’ talk last night, and when his father leaves, he rolls back over and resumes his dream where Lydia is slowly running her fingers along his-

“I told you to be ready when your father left!”

He opens his eyes and Lydia is gone. Hovering over him instead is Derek with his bed-head and unshaven face and bright eyes and how in the _hell_ did he get himself into these situations? Derek notices his morning wood and rolls his eyes and Stiles slinks out of bed and over to his closet. 

“I’ll just be a minute,” he mumbles sleepily, digging around for a t-shirt, then pulling jeans on over his boxers. It only takes him a couple minutes to get ready and grab his backpack (which is mostly full of food, because who knows if Derek will stop to eat?) Nevertheless, Derek is scowling at him like he’s taking forever.

Holy crap, this is going to be a _long_ couple of days.

*****

Most of the car ride, eleven hours and twenty eight minutes in total, is spent in awkward silence. Stiles figures out pretty quickly that Derek isn’t interested in normal, human-being conversation – at least not with him – _If you don’t stop talking right now I’m going to pull this car over and all anyone will ever find are a few of your bones,_ he tells Stiles, and Stiles, for one, decides he’ll just stop talking, thank you very much.

He occasionally steals a sideways glance at Derek and decides hating him would be so much easier if he were ugly.

He’s glad he brought a backpack full of food because he was right: Derek refuses to stop the car for any reason until, after six hours, Stiles threatens to pee on the dash of the Camaro. “I have amazing aim and I could probably write ‘jerk’ on the inside of the windshield. Actually at this point I could probably write ‘you are a selfish evil douchebag’ without too much trouble.”

Derek fails to appreciate Stiles’ joke about how full his bladder actually is, and in fact Stiles thinks he looks a little hurt by the name calling, but he pulls over (on the side of the road, you understand, not at a place with actual plumbing).

After eight hours in the car Stiles wants to irritate Derek just to break the freaking silence. He gets out some carrot sticks and starts chewing as loudly as possible. Derek’s hands tighten on the wheel before he signals to pull the car over again.  Stiles remembers his earlier threat about leaving his bones on the side of the road so he shoves the food back in his pack and tries to behave.

He swears Derek steals a couple of glances at _him_.

Chapter 3

Eventually they drive into a forest and Derek pulls off the road so suddenly and violently that Stiles’ phone flies out of his hands and _this_ shit is getting _old_. He knows better than to say anything so of course he does. “Seriously? I’m pretty sure we can’t help Deaton if we’re dead.”

Derek glowers at him then gets out of the car.  Stiles rolls his eyes, grumbles under his breath, grabs his backpack, shoves his phone inside of it, and follows.

Derek is sniffing the air and quickly disappears behind a thick mess of trees and undergrowth.

“Hey! Wait up!” Stiles quickly catches up and watches as Derek looks around with his red eyes, taking in every single detail of the forest: birds, insects, spiders and spider webs, wild berries, dirt, trails and tracks left by any number of wild animals, rocks, leaves, trees, bushes . . . and who even knew what else?

“Over here,” Derek says, leaping and climbing and jumping. Stiles wonders if he’s showing off. He keeps up with him, well, sort of. He almost loses him twice as they make their way deeper and deeper into the forest. Stiles thinks it’s unnaturally calm; no wind moves through the trees and the sounds of forest life, while not completely gone, have definitely diminished.

Stiles sees Derek up ahead where the dense forest has opened up into a clearing. Stiles catches up to him, chest heaving, and bends over to catch his breath.

“Light-weight,” mumbles Derek.

“Show-off,” Stiles responds. He walks over to a nearby tree, one of two standing awkwardly in the center of the clearing.

Derek follows, announcing, “the herb is across that field.”

“Good, let’s go get it and get the hell out of here! We have, like, an hour before it gets dark.”

“You afraid of the dark, Stiles?” he asks, raising one furry eyebrow.

“No! But I am afraid of the shit that probably happens in this forest in the dark. I’m highly imaginative, okay?”

Derek snorts and they head toward the wild rose imitating herb.

“Stop! Don’t move!” Derek growls, grabbing Stiles’ arm, and Stiles pretends not to be affected by the zillion volts of electricity he feels from being touched by Derek.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Derek looks at Stiles like he just fell out of the alphabet tree, hitting every branch on the way down except ‘I’ and ‘Q’. “This stuff is so rare that it only grows a few places in the world.  Has it occurred to you that someone else may value it?”

Stiles stares at him blankly, because Derek’s hand is still on his arm and his nearness makes it difficult to concentrate.

Derek realizes he’s not going to get a response from Stiles and continues impatiently. “It’s probably booby-trapped. Something smells unnatural here. But the smells are old, and faded, and I can’t quite …”

He shakes his head, like he’s trying to figure something out, or maybe remember something.

Stiles looks around. “I don’t see anything.” He takes a step forward. “Maybe if we-”

“Stiles, look out!” He turns to Derek in time to see teeth and claws and then he’s surrounded by werewolf and something huge swooshes by his head, and then they’re falling. Stiles has time to realize they’re going to die and then Derek’s spinning them in the air to try and control their fall and then there’s only darkness.

He wakes up with a severe headache. He must have cracked his head pretty hard when he landed.  It’s dark, except for the moonlight streaming down and reflecting off of Derek’s bright red eyes and Derek is _underneath him_ and shit, this _can’t_ be good.

“You wanna get off me?” Derek growls, and Stiles thinks his voice sounds funny, but maybe it’s because Stiles is sprawled out on top of him. 

“Oh. Wow, sorry.” He rolls off of him and Derek groans in pain.

“What, uh, what happened? You all right?”

“No, Stiles, I’m not all right!”

Now that Stiles’ eyes are adjusting to the darkness, he can make out the pain on Derek’s face. This _really_ can’t be good. He looks and feels around for his back pack in the shadowy darkness. When he finds it, he frantically digs out his phone. No service. Shocking.

He looks back at Derek, who’s trying to push himself up against the dirt wall with one leg, not using his hands at all.

 “How badly are you hurt?” Stiles asks, afraid of the answer.

“Well, thanks to a certain idiot setting off a tripwire after I told him not to move-”

“I think you fail to appreciate how difficult it is for me to _not move_!” Stiles interjects indignantly.

“We are now at the bottom of a 12 foot hole and my body’s full of thorns from the fucking herb plant I fell on!

“The herb? You mean, like, the lethal to werewolves before it’s refined herb?

“Yes, genius, that’s what I mean.”

Stiles uses the light from his phone to see that Derek has shoved piles of what looks like wild roses (to an ordinary person) away from himself. He shines the light on Derek next, sucking in his breath when he sees how many vicious looking green barbs have dug themselves into his leg and hands. (And who knows where else?) Stiles shudders at _that_ thought.

The sunlight has almost died away, and Stiles peers through the shadows with his phone, trying to figure out what exactly they’ve fallen into.  The pit seems to be about ten feet by ten feet, and, wouldn’t you know it, there’s fucking _skulls_ on the ground.

“So, uh, booby-trapped. Good call,” Stiles says, and Derek mumbles something under his breath but Stiles doesn’t quite catch it. He feels a bit like an ass. Actually, he feels _a_ _lot_ like an ass. His dad would be _pissed_. It wouldn’t even be so bad if Derek wasn’t hurt.

Oh. Yeah. Derek.

Derek’s hands are resting awkwardly in his lap and Stiles guesses they must hurt like hell, because he’s not even moving them to try and pull the thorns out of himself. He goes back over to his backpack and digs around some more until he finds a pocket knife, then crawls over to Derek.

Derek sees the knife and growls/hisses at Stiles, who nearly swallows his own tongue because it’s dark and his head hurts and this whole situation was unnerving to begin with and it’s gotten infinitely worse.

“Knock it off, or I’ll leave these things sticking out of you” he tells him, acting much calmer than his pounding heart reveals him to be.  He situates his phone in his lap, with the flashlight ap still on so he can see what he’s doing. He slowly reaches for Derek’s left hand.

Derek reluctantly lets him take it.

Stiles pulls out the first thorn, carefully using the blade of his knife to prop the thorn upright so he can grab it with his free hand. He’s a little surprised when the wound doesn’t heal. He pulls out another one, and in the shadows sees Derek watching him intently, and _that_ doesn’t add any pressure to the situation, none at all. Stiles painstakingly removes over a dozen thorns from his hand, and they have _barbs_ in them, no wonder he’s in such obvious pain.  When he’s finished, Derek flexes his hand, finally able to move it again, and glowers at Stiles.

“You’re welcome,” Styles tells him sarcastically.

“This is _your fault_ ,” Derek grumbles. “I’m not going to _thank_ you.”

Stiles is a little put off by that, but it’s true, sort of, so he’s not going to argue.  He grabs for Derek’s right hand, sighing, and starts pulling at a thorn in his thumb.  His head is absolutely pounding and he’s starting to see little colored lights. He hopes he can finish what he’s doing before he passes out again.

When he’s done with his hand, he runs his phone’s light over the lower half of Derek. There are dozens of thorns lodged in his leg, and Stiles realizes he will not be able to get them out unless he somehow manages to get Derek out of his jeans. He congratulates himself for winding up in the most awkward situation he can even imagine.

He scoots back a little (out of the reach of claws) and takes a deep breath. Working up his nerve, he tells Derek, “I need to, uh, be able to get to the skin. On your, you know, leg. To uh, get those out.” Geez, he sounds like a little _girl_.

Derek’s eyes flash red before he closes them.

Stiles clears his throat. “Do you want me to, uh, help you? You know, get your pants off?”

“Stiles, you are the last person I ever thought I’d be taking my pants off for,” he says quietly, and Stiles is panicking, because did Derek just attempt to make a _joke_?

He decides the werewolf is either dying or delirious. He wonders exactly how high his fever is.

Derek fumbles with his belt, but his fingers must be stiff. This is taking too long. Reluctantly, Stiles crawls back over to him and gently moves his hands out of the way. He unbuckles his belt and reaches for his jeans. Derek grabs his hands.

“If you ever tell anyone that you-” he begins, then apparently decides threatening Stiles isn’t worth the energy.

“This isn’t exactly my proudest moment,” Stiles says defensively. “Like I don’t want this experience listed in the year book under my name, you know what I’m saying? Now lift yourself up so I can pull these off.”

He somehow manages to get the man wiggled out of his jeans.  Some of the thorns come out because they’re stuck in the denim, but there are still a few stuck in his skin. Stiles painstakingly pulls them out. “Do you feel any more of those things in you?” he asks.

Derek just looks at him, which isn’t exactly an answer.

As he sits back on his hands, praising himself internally for his impromptu surgical skills, his vision fills with colored lights and he blacks out.

*****

“Stiles! Stiles!” The frantic voice is yelling, and he feels the words hammering themselves into his aching head.

“What? _What_?” It takes him a moment to remember where he is and what happened.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Derek hisses, but he sounds more relieved than angry.

“Do what?” Stiles asks, confused. “The thorns-”

“No! The dropping dead on the floor!”

“Oh. Sorry.” He rubs his head, still slightly confused.

“How long until someone figures out something’s wrong and comes looking for us?” Derek asks, startling Stiles.

“Probably a couple days,” Stiles says truthfully. “Unless Scott gets worried ‘cause I haven’t texted him. Then maybe a little sooner.”

Derek swallows, almost gulps, and it occurs to Stiles that Derek may not last that long.  He needs to figure out a way to get them out of this situation, and the sooner the better. His head is throbbing and he’s tired and he decides to close his eyes for just a minute…

Chapter 4

… and when he opens them again, the moon has moved across the sky far enough that several hours must have passed.  He squints over at Derek and sees that he’s shuddering. The air is cool but not unpleasant, and Derek’s wearing that leather jacket. He shouldn’t be shuddering.

Stiles scoots over to him and puts a hand on his forehead. Derek’s eyes snap open.

“You’re burning up, even for you,” Stiles murmurs. “Do werewolves even _get_ fevers?”

“What are you talking about?” Derek hisses. “I’m _freezing_.”

Stiles sighs. “That’s because you have a _fever_.”

Derek huffs and tries to curl into himself even more.  Stiles finds a bottle of water, takes off the lid and puts it up to Derek’s mouth. He downs almost half of it before slumping back against the wall. Stiles, in spite of himself, can’t just let him sit here and suffer.  He sits back against the wall next to Derek and puts an arm around his shoulder and pulls him against his chest.  Derek struggles against him briefly, but Stiles suspects it’s just for show because a moment later he has situated himself in a fetal position in Stile’s lap, resting against him with his head against Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles feels a little disturbed by how much he enjoys holding Derek like this. The guy is hurt, _big time_ , and they are stuck in a pit in the middle of the woods in the dark. But still, the weight of him, the warmth of him, the fact that he’s letting Stiles be this close . . . it’s endearing, and if that’s a little fucked up, well, so is this entire night. He takes one of Derek’s hands and traces his fingers lightly over the holes left by the thorns.  He doesn’t understand why he isn’t healing.  It’s ironic and frustrating that the stuff they came here for, the herb that is essential to the antidote, is slowly poisoning Derek.

They stay huddled together like that for a long time, long enough that the sun starts streaming pink light across the sky. 

After a while, Derek asks, “where am I?”

Stiles realizes his fever has gotten so high that he’s become delirious. He decides to tell him the truth without burdening him with too much detail.

“We’re in the woods. We were looking for an herb for Deaton, remember, and we fell, into a deep hole.” Stiles realizes for the first time that Derek protected him when they fell: he made sure Stiles landed on top of him to try and keep him from getting hurt. His chest tightens a little.

“Erica?” Derek cries out.

Stiles swallows. Maybe he won’t divulge _too_ much truth. “She’s fine,” he lies.

“Boyd?” Derek asks.

Stiles says nothing.

“I want to go home.” The plaintive plea in his voice is so un-Derek-like that Stiles wraps his arms even more tightly around him.

“We’re safe,” he says. “Scott and Deaton are looking for us and they’ll be here soon.” It won’t be soon, he knows, because even after they realize they’re missing, it will take twelve hours for them to drive here, plus time to find them.

Stiles has an idea. There’s GPS on his phone. It’s almost out of power, but if he can throw it out of the hole, there was reception in the woods . . . maybe Scott and Deaton can locate the signal before it dies. It’s a pretty slim chance, but better than nothing.

He gently maneuvers himself out from underneath Derek and grabs his phone. He staggers a little when he stands up, but manages to chuck it up and out of the hole, hoping like hell it doesn’t break when it lands.

He looks back down at Derek, who is lying in the dirt, moaning softly.

Stiles sits down next to him and pulls and yanks and drags him back into his lap.

“I’m not all bad, you know. I’m not evil.”

“I know,” Stiles answers, a little taken aback by this sudden and unexpected admission. “I don’t think you’re evil.”

“I know you think I’m incapable of it, but I love you guys. You’re my family. My pack.”

Stiles starts to wonder if he’s delirious or _possessed_. He has no idea how to respond, and somebody write down the date and time because Derek has left Stiles Stalinski speechless.

“I would die for any of you,” he continues. Stiles squirms a bit because this is starting to play out like one of his fantasies.

“Derek, I know, you don’t have to say it.”

“I do have to say it. Because I’m dying, and I want _you of all people_ to know that I – that I’m not totally inhuman.”

No, those are definitely not tears in his eyes. He needs to _do_ something, needs to _move_. He reaches up and cards his fingers through Derek’s hair. It feels as soft and delicious as he imagined it would.

Great, now there are tears running down his _face_.

“Do you hate me?” Derek asks softly.

“Why would I hate you?” Stiles almost chokes.

Derek sighs. “It’s okay. I understand. I haven’t exactly been _nice_ to you.”

“Derek-”

“You’re my favorite, you know. You always have been.” He looks up at Stiles and his eyes are unfocused but intense at the same time.

“It’s just that – I know what you must think of me. I know you think I’m a killer.”

“You have no idea what I think-”

“I know that I’ve failed at every single thing that was important in my life. I got my own family killed. Scott despises me. My pack is dying because I couldn’t even get Deaton his herbs for the antidote. You must think I’m repulsive.”

Stiles definitely does _not_ think he’s repulsive. “Derek, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve got the worst luck of anyone, ever, in the history of, well, luck. No one blames you for what happened. And Scott doesn’t despise you, exactly. And we will get the herb to Deaton, somehow, I promise.”

“I’m still sorry you’re stuck here, with me, like this. I know you’d rather be . . . anywhere else.” He pauses and Stiles thinks maybe the wisecracks he’s made about his feelings regarding Derek were a mistake.

“I’m sorry for letting this happen. I should have protected you better. I should have stopped you.”

Stiles can’t take any more of this self-deprecating, self-loathing Derek. He cups his face and turns his head so they are eye to eye.

“Listen to me. First of all, I don’t hate you. I don’t blame you for us being stuck down here. It’s my fault, actually, and you got yourself poked full of holes because of it.  And all the stuff I say about you – it’s because I actually give a shit, okay? Because you – you’re family to me, too, okay? And . . . more.”

“More?” he asks hopefully, like he’s afraid to believe someone could actually give a shit about him again. Stiles can’t take it anymore.  He gently leans forward and brushes his lips against Derek’s. He puts his arms weakly around Stiles.

“Would you do that again?”

He does, and pretty soon they are holding each other so tightly it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.  Stiles slips his hand inside Derek’s jacket and snuggles his face against the raspy fuzz on Derek’s check.  Derek clings to him like he is life itself. They stay cuddled like that, not needing any more words, and that is how Scott and Deaton discover them, hours later.

Five days later . . .

“They couldn’t even measure you r fever, dude, it was that high,” Scott says, looking at Derek reproachfully.  “You need to give yourself time to recover.”

“I told you, I’m fine, and I need to get this antidote delivered to the other packs.” Derek seems very much back to normal as far as Stiles is concerned.

“I could come with you,” Stiles offers, and everyone in the room turns to look at him.

“What, you two haven’t had enough time alone?” Erica (now fully recovered) teases.

“Actually,” Stiles says, going over and putting his arm around Derek, “we came to something of an understanding while we were down there.”

Derek is so shocked by the physical contact with Stiles that he doesn’t even growl. “What are you talking about?” he demands, clearly puzzled.

Stiles isn’t sure if he’s pretending to have memory loss or if he’s genuinely forgotten all the mushy things he said to Stiles. In either case, he feels that he’d be betraying Derek in the worst way imaginable by sharing it with everyone, or even making light of it.

So he just reaches up, with his heartbeat steady, and touches Derek’s lips, enjoying the absolute shock on his face.

“Don’t remember, huh? Pity, cause you made a _definite_ impression on _me_.”

With that, he leaves the room, grinning at the chorus of cat calls and woo hoos and one what the fuck from Jackson. He breaks into a run when he hears Derek growl, “ _Stilinski! What the hell happened down there? Stiles? STILES??”_


End file.
